Bernard Knight - Grounds for Appeal

It was now nearing the end of November and the days were becoming very short. The autumn colours had almost gone and even the Wye Valley looked sombre, as its trees became bare. Most days, Richard Pryor went off to local mortuaries to perform post-mortems on coroners’ cases, which was the mainstay of his contribution to the partnership’s budget.

He had been fortunate in that the coroner who served the area was an old classmate of his in the Welsh National School of Medicine, where they had qualified before the war. Brian Meredith had become a family doctor in Monmouth, but had also obtained the job of coroner for a wide area of the county. The old retired doctor who had previously provided him with a post-mortem service had died and Brian was happy to give his old friend a welcome start in his new venture as a freelance. So at the small public mortuaries at Chepstow and Monmouth, together with locums at the big hospital at Newport and sometimes Hereford, Richard had a few days’ regular work each week. During the university terms, he gave lectures on forensic medicine to the undergraduates at the medical school in Bristol, travelling there across the Severn estuary on the ferry between Beachley and Aust. All this, together with occasional work for the police in his role as an accredited Home Office pathologist and some civil and defence work for lawyers over a wide area, allowed the Garth House consultancy to thrive. The rest of the income came from Angela’s serology work, mostly blood-group testing in disputed paternity cases, and Sian’s chemical analyses, mainly for alcohol in drunk-driving cases and a variety of drugs from coroners’ post-mortems.

This peaceful routine was given an injection of new activity by a phone call taken by Moira Davison late one morning. Richard Pryor had just returned from Monmouth and was talking to Jimmy Jenkins in the backyard, inevitably about his precious vines, which appeared to have become leafless and possibly lifeless, as the winter approached.

‘Should ’ave waited until the spring, doctor!’ growled Jimmy. ‘Or planted strawberries instead, like I told you.’

The neat brunette appeared at the back door to break up this oft-repeated argument.

‘Doctor Pryor, there’s a call for you in the office. A solicitor from Bristol.’

Leaving Jimmy to attach yet another Woodbine to his lower lip, Richard followed Moira back indoors and up the corridor to her office.

‘I think he said it’s about a murder Appeal,’ she whispered excitedly, as she opened the door. She had recently sat in Gloucester Assize Court to listen to her boss giving evidence for the defence in the trial of a veterinary surgeon accused of poisoning his wife and ever since she had been hooked on reading about real-life crimes. As Richard took the receiver, she busied herself with papers at the other side of the room, but her ears were flapping as he spoke. What she heard was not very exciting, just a brief agreement to visit the lawyer in his office next day, but afterwards, Richard took pity on her.

‘That was a solicitor from St Paul’s in Bristol. He wants a conference with me about an Appeal that’s coming up, for a woman who was convicted of murder a year ago.’

Moira looked at him with admiration in her eyes. She had more than a soft spot for her employer; it was verging on hero worship.

‘St Paul’s? That’s a pretty run-down area of Bristol, isn’t it? Not far from the city centre.’

Richard gave her one of his impish grins. ‘So probably plenty of criminal work for lawyers there! Though for all I know, the appellant might live in a grand mansion on Clifton Down.’

Her brow furrowed in thought. ‘Appellant? That’s what they call the person who wants to appeal, is it?’

‘Yes, though very few succeed. In most cases, the Appeal is made on the grounds that there was some procedural fault in the original trial or investigation. It’s rare for the actual evidence to be challenged at this late stage, but it must be something to do with that or they wouldn’t be asking me to look at it.’

‘Will the Appeal be in Bristol?’ asked Moira hopefully, thinking of another chance to tag along to listen.

He shook his head. ‘No, they’re all heard in London, at the Court of Criminal Appeal. That’s in the Royal Courts of Justice, in the Strand.’

As Richard left the room, she sighed wistfully, aware that there was no chance of going to London with him. That was something reserved for Angela Bray, who had recently accompanied him there in connection with a War Office case that they had been involved in. She went back to the kitchen to wash a salad for the doctors’ lunch, feeling vaguely dissatisfied with the way her life was passing so quickly. Though she was eternally grateful for Garth House having lifted her from her chronic depression after the death of her husband, she felt that though having passed thirty, there was still plenty she could achieve — but she had no idea in what direction, though since coming here to work, her interest in the workings of the legal system had increased.

Meanwhile, Richard had gone off to look at the microscope slides made by Sian from the sliver of bone he had taken from the Borth Body. They had taken longer than usual to prepare, as his technician had reported that the ‘marble bone’ had been very reluctant to soften up sufficiently for it to be cut on her microtome, a device like a very accurate bacon-slicer that could deliver transparently-thin wafers of tissue.

A few glances at the pink slivers on glass slides, together with a quick check in a pathology manual, were enough to confirm that it was indeed Albers-Schonberg disease, with its dense overgrowth of calcium and alteration of the cells in the bone. He made a note about it in the file that they kept on every one of their cases, then leaned back in his chair and pondered what might be the reason for the lawyer from Middleton, Bailey and Bailey wanting to talk to him next day. Then his wandering thoughts drifted to the West Wales coast, as he wondered if any progress was being made with the murder investigation — and whether he would ever hear any more about it.

In Borth that day, the incident room was being closed down, as no one could find any more work for it to do.

In the two weeks since the body was discovered, virtually every house for five miles around had been visited by the police, a substantial task for so few officers. Absolutely nothing had come of these enquiries, which was hardly surprising given the years that had elapsed — especially as the actual number of those years was unknown, other than a vague guess by Richard Pryor that a decade might be a reasonable time-span. Added to this was the lack of any physical description, other than that the victim was of average height and had a tattoo on his right upper arm. Detective Superintendent Paul Vickers had already returned to ‘The Smoke’, rejoicing at his escape from deepest Cardiganshire and his sergeant was itching to follow him.

‘It’s a waste of time, I’m afraid,’ he said to Meirion, as they gathered up the last of their notes and made for the Wolseley that would take them back to police HQ in Aberystwyth. ‘There’s nothing I can do here that you can’t do better, with local knowledge. I agree with my guv’nor that the answer to this one is miles away from here — not that I think you’re ever going to know after all this time.’

As they drove through the rain-soaked countryside, the local DI had to agree with him.

‘My gut feeling is that this is a wartime job. All sorts of damn queer things went on then — and in the couple of years after it finished. Lots of blokes knocking about the country in the army, plenty of black-market fiddles and other rackets.’

Howard Squires, happy to be getting back to his home and family in Tooting, was inclined to agree. ‘We’ll keep in touch and if anything turns up at this end, we can come straight back. But I doubt you’ll strike lucky having drawn a total blank so far.’